


Ophiocordycipitaceae

by Autodidact, spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)



Series: Leto Does Podfic [15]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Dubious Consent, Exciting new orifices, Full Cast Podfic, Fungi, Gore, Jonah Magnus Week, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Mind Control, Mushrooms, Podfic, Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, Trypophobia, fungal infection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25377556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion
Summary: "There is much that exists outside the pages of your manuscripts and books, living—thriving—in the dark where the light of academia refuses to shine,” Jonah says. “I can show you.”He takes a step back and begins to bloom before Jonathan’s eyes.
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Series: Leto Does Podfic [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1890415
Comments: 22
Kudos: 47
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bit over a month late, but this is my contribution to day 3 of Jonah week. The prompt was Jonah/Jonathan, queer identities (sfw), medical examination (nsfw). Kinda hit on that last one, but I made it waaaay weird.
> 
> This is part of a really elaborate au that arose from the question "what if Jonah were an avatar of the corruption?" I'll eventually write more for this au, some day...
> 
> Ophiocordycipitaceae is the name of a family of parasitic fungi that includes Cordyceps. It's a mouthful, so [here's](https://www.pronouncekiwi.com/Ophiocordycipitaceae) a recorded pronunciation of it, if you're interested!
> 
> The words cock, slit, and chest are used to refer to transmasc anatomy.
> 
> The absolute hugest thanks to Leto ([Autodidact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact)) who gave this the most thorough and astounding beta read. You are a treasure and a delight.
> 
> And all of my love and thanks to the Jonah server. None of this would have been written without your support <3
> 
> Chapter 2 is a full-cast podfic! It turned out beautifully, so please try giving it a listen!

There’s a knocking at Jonathan’s front door. Three sharp, startling raps against the wood that pull him from his book, set him to blinking in the changed light of the room. He casts a glance towards the window, taking in the muted light and long shadows that filter in through the curtains, and wonders at how quickly day has fallen nearly into night. He checks his watch compulsively—a useless gesture, considering his visitor has arrived and is waiting outside his door. But the routine of it brings him some small comfort, and he cannot deny he needs it now.

As he stands and approaches the door, he finds his chest filled with that sudden, fluttering nervousness that accompanies all such instances in which he is expected to act the host. Jonathan does not much care for the games that society would have him play—resents the arbitrary rules, the compulsory participation, the threat of being cast out should he fail to comply. And though he knows his guest to be a kindred spirit by the quality of his letters and the words of their mutual acquaintance Barnabas Bennett, he finds the feeling difficult to shake. He pauses in front of the door, taking a moment to smooth his hands down the front of his jacket and collect himself before he pulls it open and sets eyes on his visitor.

“Good evening,” the man says, tipping his head respectfully in greeting. “I’m here to speak with Doctor Fanshawe.”

Jonathan finds himself taken quite by surprise. He is accustomed to the academic type, the way that they look and sound: stuffy and plain, bland as the topics on which they rhapsodize. Jonathan himself is one such man—a fact that he can readily admit—and he can’t fault another for having those qualities he too possesses. The man before him, however, appears to be none of these things, at least at first glance. He smiles up at Jonathan, warm and courteous and so very handsome, and Jonathan struggles to remember his voice under the weight of his attention.

“Yes!” Jonathan says, wincing as he hears his voice, loud in his haste to respond. He begins again, quieter this time, “That is to say, _I_ am Doctor Fanshawe. And so you must be Mr. Magnus.” Jonathan moves back from the doorway and the man steps in beside him, sweeping his hat from his head and handing it to Jonathan to stow away.

“I am indeed,” he says. He removes his gloves with quick, practiced tugs at each finger and offers a hand for Jonathan to take. “Though I must ask that you call me Jonah.”

“Jonah,” Jonathan says, carefully. It doesn’t sound the same coming from his mouth: flat and clipped on the vowels, almost heavy on his tongue. Not at all like the lilt Jonah gave it, the gentle pull on the _o_ , the soft breath at the end. “In that case, please call me Jonathan.”

He takes Jonah’s hand then, small and cool in his own, and is struck by the desire to bring it to his mouth, to press a kiss to the knuckles. He can imagine the pink flush that would suffuse Jonah’s pale, freckled cheeks, surprised at Jonathan’s boldness; the curl of his fingers against Jonathan’s palm, as if to hold him there a moment longer; the dart of his tongue against his lips, wet in anticipation of Jonathan’s next kiss.

“Would it offend you terribly if I didn’t?”

The question startles Jonathan, pulling him from his sudden, vivid daydream. His daze solidifies into horror as he returns to himself and parses Jonah’s words. What had come over him just then? What had called those thoughts into his mind unbidden and drove him to distraction? He’s misstepped already, surely—soured this meeting with his lapse into rudeness and impropriety—and he fumbles for an apology.

“Forgive me,” he says, moving to release Jonah’s hand. “I didn’t mean to imply—"

“You misunderstand me,” Jonah says, tightening his grip on Jonathan’s hand. “I don’t mean to refuse your familiarity. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He leans in towards Jonathan, pressing into his space, and smiles coyly up at him. “I thought I might call you something else.”

“Something else?” Jonathan asks, eyes fixed on the curve of Jonah’s mouth.

“ _Doctor,_ ” Jonah says on a sigh. “I would very much like to call you Doctor.”

The word jolts through Jonathan, knocks the air from his lungs. “Oh,” he stutters out, tongue-tied and clumsy. “Y-yes. If it pleases you.”

It’s the correct response: polite and accommodating and meaningless. But Jonathan means it now, finds himself singularly focused on Jonah and his pleasure. The thought of Jonah calling him Doctor— _Doctor,_ just as he had a moment before, the word falling soft and breathy from his lips—well, it pleases Jonathan, too. And in the half-light of the entryway, with Jonah standing so close, it’s easy to imagine several things that Jonah might find pleasing—things that Jonathan would find quite pleasing as well.

“It would,” Jonah murmurs.

There’s a canniness to his gaze as he looks over Jonathan’s face, as if he can read from his features the contents of his mind: the dip of his brow like written word, the slack of his jaw an open book. Whatever he finds there seems to satisfy him, and he pulls his hand from Jonathan’s, trailing light fingers down the center of his palm.

“Now,” Jonah says, voice cordial once again. He tilts his head and gestures out towards the hall beyond them. “Why don’t you show me where you work?”

The sudden change in tone takes Jonathan by surprise, and he blinks at Jonah absently for a moment before he finds it in himself to respond. “Of course,” he says. “Please, follow me.”

Out of the cramped entryway and with some distance between them, Jonathan begins to feel a bit more clear-headed and more than a bit foolish about his behavior in the hall. Unsure of how to broach the issue, Jonathan resolves to move past it, deciding instead to address the purpose of their meeting.

“I must admit, I haven’t a clue why you wished to speak with me,” he says, then winces at his own words. “Pardon my candor. I simply meant that I’m not sure how my work could pertain to yours. As I understand it, your work involves plants—mushrooms and such. I don’t know what insights I could provide that you would find especially worthwhile.”

“Your candor is appreciated,” Jonah says. At Jonathan’s indication, he makes his way into the study and looks around. His eyes pause for a long moment on the large wooden examination table in the center, on the gleaming metal instruments laid out at one end, and he shoots Jonathan a small smile over his shoulder as he makes his way over to a bookshelf. “I find that speaking plainly greatly improves the quality of most conversations, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” Jonathan says. He watches as Jonah slides a slender finger along the spines of the books, coming to rest on a large volume of anatomical drawings. “I shall speak plainly then: what could a botanist wish to learn from a surgeon?”

“A fair question.” Jonah pulls the book from the shelf, and Jonathan catches a glimpse of the gold-embossed title on the well-worn binding: _De humani corporis fabrica._ On the fabric of the human body. Jonah continues as he flips through the pages idly. “You’re correct in that my work has mainly focused on fungi. The study of their growth, their habitat, their properties. And that still remains the case. However, I’ve found myself thinking lately of disease. Of infection.”

“Infection?” Jonathan asks. He watches as Jonah stops mid-way through the book, traces his fingers over the page. “Infection in mushrooms?”

Jonah looks up from the book then, turns his head to give Jonathan a once-over, slow and deliberate. “In humans.”

“I’m not sure I understand…” Jonathan says. The book in Jonah’s arms is tilted just enough for Jonathan to see the side of an illustration, and he focuses on the sweep of the lines on the yellowed paper rather than on meeting Jonah’s eye.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Jonah smiles at Jonathan, a small, patronizing thing—as if Jonathan were some dull schoolboy, pitiful in his lack of knowledge. Indignation rises alongside his unease, and he crosses his arms in front of his chest, the better to hide the way his hands shake.

“Fungi don’t infect the human body,” he says, stern and disapproving. “Such a thing has never been observed or described in any reputable medical text.” He shakes his head and fixes Jonah with a hard look. “They’re plants, Jonah, not diseases. It’s not possible.”

Jonah sighs at Jonathan’s words, long and wearied. He takes a moment to lay the book on the desk beside him, smoothing a hand over the open page before turning to face Jonathan. “I must confess: I am rather disappointed, Doctor Fanshawe. I hadn’t taken you for a naïve man.”

“Excuse me?”

“You assume only that which can be seen and felt and transcribed is possible. You limit yourself to those ideas deemed acceptable by your peers, with little thought given to any that fall outside established convention. Do you not see how that confines you? Do you not see how that holds you back?”

Jonah steps forward, pushing into Jonathan’s space until he’s close enough to count every freckle across the bridge of his nose. Jonathan catches his scent then, earthy and sweet and somehow familiar, and the dizzying jolt that courses through his body has him reaching out to steady himself on the table at his back.

“I was once like you, in that regard,” Jonah continues. He settles a hand on Jonathan’s arm, rubs his thumb lightly over the crook of his elbow. “Hungry for knowledge—for absolute proof. I thought that little else mattered. I know better now.” His fingers tighten momentarily at the bend of Jonathan’s arm. “There is much that exists outside the pages of your manuscripts and books, living— _thriving_ —in the dark where the light of academia refuses to shine.”

Words seem to have escaped Jonathan, forced out with all the air in his lungs as Jonah presses closer, slides his hand up to Jonathan’s shoulder.

“Have you ever seen the way fungi spread over a body, Doctor?” Jonah slips his thumb under the knot of Jonathan’s cravat, pushing forward until he reaches skin. “The way they roil and swell across the rotting expanse of flesh, an inexorable tide of life sprung up from the wells of death and decay? The way they consume it so utterly, take it inside themselves, make it a part of themselves—until they are one with it, until they are _whole?_ ”

Jonathan watches with rapt attention as Jonah speaks, struck motionless with dread, mesmerized by Jonah’s words. They buzz over his skin, humming under his tongue, against the tips of his fingers, at his throat where Jonah thumbs at his pulse.

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like for them to spread _inside_ a body?” Jonah asks. “Inside _your_ body? For them to grow up and out from _within?_ ”

Jonah steps closer, boxing Jonathan in against the table behind him. He presses firm against the wild rise of Jonathan’s chest as he draws in shuddering breaths, great heaving lungfuls of air that do little to quell the frantic beat of his heart. Fear fills him then, heavy and overwhelming; but so too does something akin to excitement, fluttering and electric as it settles in his gut. They mingle and curl inside him— _spread inside him_ , connected and symbiotic and _one._ He hangs off of Jonah’s every word, leans in closer; imagines catching each one in his mouth and swallowing them down, that they might spread inside his chest as well.

“For your body to become a home—to become a _garden,_ from which so many more bodies bloom and grow and thrive. To become something greater than the sum of your parts; perfect in your transformation, beautiful in your completeness. To know the fullness of love and to have it take root deep down in your flesh, until you no longer know what it means to be alone.”

There is an aching deep in Jonathan’s chest, some dormant pain buried under years and years of personal detachment and careful distances. It germinates now, shooting up from the deepest parts of him to push against his ribcage, trying to break free. He longs for something—something for which he doesn’t have a name. But he knows in his bones that it belongs to him—and that he belongs to it.

A hand presses against his face, cool and steadying on his jaw. Jonathan comes back to himself, the point of contact an anchor for his focus. Jonah looks up at him with earnest excitement and Jonathan finds himself holding his breath in anticipation.

“You don’t have to wonder any longer,” Jonah says, stroking a thumb over Jonathan’s cheekbone. “I can show you.”

Jonah takes a step back and begins to bloom before Jonathan’s eyes.

The change is subtle at first. It begins with a pallor that spreads across Jonah’s face and neck, the skin bloodless and pale against the red of his hair. It throws his freckles into stark relief, dark against his cheeks until they begin to _glow,_ emitting a dull, green light that intensifies until it reflects off of the whites of Jonah’s eyes.

“What’s happening?” Jonathan asks, stepping backwards until the edge of the table digs into the small of his back. “What—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp intake of breath and watches, open-mouthed, as Jonah’s left eye turns glassy and clouds over as it sinks back into Jonah’s skull. The eyelid falls shut over the empty socket, and when Jonah blinks it open again, the fruiting bodies of a dozen tiny mushrooms grow up out of the empty space, pale gold and shining and dripping with tears. Jonathan watches in horrified fascination as they stretch upwards, pushing through Jonah’s lashes, clinging and wet, brushing against the curls that fall into his face. It’s beautiful, he thinks as he watches the caps spread open—strangely, sickeningly beautiful. When Jonah reaches out to grab his hand and raise it to his neck, Jonathan doesn’t have the will to stop him.

“Here,” Jonah says, pressing Jonathan’s fingers just below his jaw. “You can feel it, too.”

For a moment, all Jonathan can feel is the flutter of Jonah’s pulse, slow and steady and calm under his fingertips. And then something else begins to move; something that pushes up against his fingers, bulges outward in ridges along the side of Jonah’s neck. Jonathan watches, entranced, as the skin of Jonah’s throat ripples under his hand, distending around his fingers. It stretches until it’s tissue-thin, until Jonathan can see the shadowy shapes that press just underneath the surface, ready to emerge; until the tension finally breaks and the skin splits open like a burst seam, like overripe fruit. Jonathan pulls his hand back to better see as fungi drop from the opening: a dozen broad, flat caps in blues and greens and browns and creams that curve around Jonah’s neck. Jonah smiles serenely up at him, apparently in no pain, as the torn skin of his throat tightens and mends, puckering and ruffling into gills that line the underside of the caps.

“Is this proof enough for you, Doctor?” Jonah asks, voice light and teasing. “Or should I expect a thorough examination to follow?”

Jonathan looks at the man before him, horrifying and strange and _lovely,_ and is struck by the intensity of his need to know more. To see where else on that soft, curved body those luminescent flecks spread; to feel how deep into the dark, wet depths of him that tangle of fungi blooms. To reach out and dig into him, to feel the soft give of the flesh under his fingers as he pulls him apart and knows him from the inside out. He swallows thickly and keeps his hands held carefully at his sides.

“You would willingly submit to my inspection?” he asks, the coolness in his voice belied by the slight tremble he fails to suppress.

“Submit?” Jonah laughs. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” He steps in closer and lays a hand on Jonathan’s chest, pressing over where his heart thuds against his ribcage. “But you’ll find that there are few things to which I would truly object… and even fewer into which I couldn’t be persuaded.”

“Right,” Jonathan says, and breathes in deep to steady himself. He raises a hand to Jonah’s neck, fingers running over pale skin where it frills into delicate lamellae, brushes the tips of them over the shelf of mushrooms that adorn his throat like a collar. They twitch under his touch, pulsing and shifting and alive, and he is put in mind of gills—of sharp, slick incisions; of soft, vulnerable places, tucked away and kept hidden. Fascinated, Jonathan finds a parting of skin and pushes just barely inside.

“Now, Doctor,” Jonah tuts, “I wouldn’t call this polite bedside manner, would you?” His grin is sharp and his voice chiding, but he tilts his head, angling himself into the press of fingers just under his jaw.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Jonathan asks. When he draws his hand back, his fingers come away coated in a viscid amber fluid that glows slightly in the dim light of the room. “Taking you to bed?”

“I suppose that would depend,” Jonah says. He catches Jonathan’s hand and brings it to his mouth, looks up at him from under dark lashes as he presses his fingers against his lips.

“On?” Jonathan’s breath catches in his throat as Jonah darts his tongue out to drag against the pad of his forefinger. His lips are shining and wet and Jonathan can’t take his eyes off them, watching the way they wrap around the words as Jonah speaks.

“On exactly what you plan to do to me.”

Jonah draws him down by the grip on his shirt and kisses him, sticky and sweet and tasting of honey, of damp earth. Jonathan gathers him closer, licks into his mouth to chase the taste across Jonah’s tongue, swallows down the soft sigh Jonah breathes against his lips. There’s a headiness to the room, a fevered warmth that bears down on him as Jonah presses in closer. Hands, small and blessedly cool, slide over his chest, under his jacket, and he shrugs with their motion to allow it to fall down his arms and onto the floor. They fist into the fabric around his collar, keeping him bent at the waist, bowed over Jonah as if in supplication.

“Well, Doctor?” Jonah asks. “Would you care for more than just a taste?”

Struck by a sudden, desperate need to get closer, Jonathan jerks forward, pressing his mouth against Jonah’s neck, nosing along the line of his jaw. The skin of his throat is cool under his lips, supple and soft, smooth until he runs up against the ridges that run across the side of it. And the _smell_ of it: tilled soil after a summer storm, the tang of fresh clay unearthed from a muddy riverbed, the rich sweetness of decaying autumn leaves on a forest floor. He breathes in deeply, and his head is filled with a buzzing elation, an intoxicated dizziness that sets his hands to trembling where they press against Jonah’s shoulders to push off his jacket.

Jonah reaches up to wrap his arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and Jonathan moves before he has time to consider. Sliding his hands down along the curve of Jonah’s waist, Jonathan bends to grasp him by the backs of his thighs, hefting him up into his arms and turning to sit him on the table. Jonah arches up into Jonathan, tips his head back with a small sigh, exposing the pale, vulnerable line of his throat, the golden beads of fluid that collect like morning dew on the undersides of the caps tucked beneath his jaw. The room seems to narrow to the points of contact between them: the press of Jonah’s knees at Jonathan’s hips, the hot fan of his breath against his ear, the clutch of his fingers as they dig into the bows of his shoulder blades.

Jonathan is beset by the animal desire to set his teeth to the jugular, to sink them into the vulnerable flesh of his throat, to tear into him and know the taste of his blood as it gushes hot and slick from the wound. He instead drags his tongue along the edge of the shelf of mushrooms that encircle his throat, sweeps it down across the velvety gills, curls it into the slit at the side of his neck. The sap flows over his tongue, smooth and mellifluous as the moan that falls from Jonah’s lips, sharp and sweet as the scratch of Jonah’s fingers against his back. He presses his face in closer, lapping against the parted flesh, chasing the taste to its source. The sound he makes is loud even for all it’s muffled against Jonah’s neck—strangled, desperate, and _hungry._

Jonah laughs above him, a dark, rich sound that sends a shiver down Jonathan’s spine, prickling across his skin. “Find me to your satisfaction, then?” he asks.

Jonathan pulls back from his neck with a soft, wet sound, and glances upward to find Jonah shooting an amused look his way. Jonathan imagines how he must look: face flushed red, glasses askew across his nose, mouth shining and chin dripping. The room around him softens and blurs, a hazy backdrop against which Jonah is the only point of clarity, the only point of focus.

“I—” Jonathan begins roughly, tongue heavy in his mouth, lips buzzing and slow. He straightens up slightly, shaking his head to clear it. “That is to say…”

A bead of sap forms at the edge of the slit on Jonah’s neck, puffy and pink from Jonathan’s attentions. He watches, transfixed, as it grows fatter and heavier until it falls, rolling slowly down the column of his throat to collect in the hollow above his collarbone. His mouth waters as he imagines dipping his tongue into the divot, biting into the thin, fragile skin, scraping his teeth over the curve of bone. He bites his lip and does not speak further, afraid of what words might spill from his clumsy tongue.

“Come, now,” Jonah tuts. “I had understood you to be an educated man, and therefore expected a _rousing_ conversational partner.” His voice is pitched with the sort of teasing condescension that would normally raise Jonathan’s hackles and provoke him to anger. Now, Jonathan can only focus on the shape of those words on Jonah’s mouth, slick and red and tempting.

“I suppose I could find it in myself to excuse you,” he sighs, as if he were agreeing to a particularly tedious favor. “You may be pleased to know that I find words to pale in comparison to _actions._ ” He leans back onto his palms then, tipping his chin to look up at Jonathan with a coquettish grin.

“Are you a man of action, Doctor Fanshawe?” he asks, and lets his thighs fall open in invitation, nudges his heels against the backs of Jonathan’s thighs to draw him in closer. Jonah’s mouth falls open as Jonathan slots his hips against his, the tip of his tongue touched to his lip as he looks down his nose at Jonathan with dark, hungry eyes.

Jonathan decides to show him exactly what sort of man he is.

He leans forward to capture Jonah’s mouth, pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down just hard enough to break skin and rip a moan, sudden and breathless, from his mouth. The bitter, earthy taste of Jonah’s blood coats his tongue, and Jonathan laps it up, sucks the bruised and bleeding flesh into his mouth. He reaches around Jonah, out behind him where his medical kit lays open, feeling around until he finds his scalpel.

Jonah pulls back then, lip dragging through Jonathan’s teeth until it slides free with a soft, wet pop. He glances down at Jonathan’s hand and laughs, low and delighted. 

“I see,” he says. He licks his lips, smearing the blood across them, and smiles wide and red, showing teeth. “Eager for more, are we?”

Jonathan ignores him. He instead slides the blade into the opening of his waistcoat, severing the buttons from the fabric with clinical efficiency and letting them fall to the table with soft _plinks_ against the wood.

“Hands not steady enough for the job?” Jonah teases. He arches up into the press of the scalpel—a taunt, a dare. Jonathan exhales carefully, nostrils flaring, and doesn’t look up.

“If they weren’t,” he says, pulling the blade, whisper-quiet, through the threads connecting the last of the buttons, “there would be a considerable amount of your insides on display right now.”

“Mm,” Jonah hums. “Isn’t that part of the draw, though?” He reaches up to run his fingers along the inside of Jonathan’s arm, rests them over where his pulse flutters in his wrist. “Don’t tell me you’re starting to feel squeamish, Doctor.”

It feels to Jonathan like a trap. It feels as if he’s being goaded, pulled and prodded into something the consequences of which he does not understand. Jonah sits before him, soft and lovely and so very tempting. Easy prey— _willing_ prey. But things as beautiful and as sweet are rarely only so: he thinks of berries whose ripeness hide the poison inside, of plants whose promise of nectar masks the threat within. Jonathan wonders how close he stands to the trigger; wonders if it would truly be so awful to be ensnared, to be consumed.

Against his better judgement, perhaps, he lays down his scalpel, though he keeps it close by. Jonah’s hand falls from his wrist as Jonathan steps back to look him over.

“Remove your shirt.”

“Not going to cut that from me too?” Jonah asks, but moves to comply, shrugging the remains of his waistcoat from his shoulders and moving to untie the laces at his chest. “Pity.”

“You seem rather keen to have a blade taken to you,” Jonathan says. “One might begin to wonder why that is.”

The shirt loosens around Jonah’s neck, revealing a sliver of pale, freckled shoulder. He leans back on one hand, and the movement pulls the fabric taut against his body, the thin cotton clinging to the slope of his chest, conforming to the dips and ridges that appear to cover his torso. Jonathan’s eye is caught by a point on his sternum where the smooth expanse of his skin begins to pucker and wrinkle, and he follows the line of it down until where it disappears under his shirt.

“One might,” Jonah says, and when Jonathan looks up, Jonah is smiling at him knowingly. He reaches out to lay a hand on Jonathan’s jaw, presses a finger into the hinge of it. “And perhaps one would be right to do so. But I believe my motivations here to be quite transparent.” He swipes his thumb gently across Jonathan’s lips. It comes away shining and red. “The look of blood on your mouth is most alluring.”

Jonathan is struck then by the image of Jonah, spread out and trembling underneath him as he carves his reverence into his skin, stinging lines of pain and devotion. Jonah, arching into his mouth as blood beads up from the cuts, ruby-red arils that burst across Jonathan’s tongue, tangy and sweet. Jonah, breathless and achingly beautiful as the incisions well and spill over, rivulets of red that spread across the slopes of his body, painting him in shades of vermillion and crimson and scarlet. Jonah, looking up at him with soft, unfocused eyes as blood drips from his chin, rolls down his neck, soaks into the collar of his shirt.

He hardly has time to ground himself and catch his breath, before Jonah draws his shirt up and over his head in one fluid motion, baring his torso to Jonathan’s eyes. From the center of his chest spreads a network of intricate holes, small where they cluster and curve along the bottom of his ribcage, elongated where they honeycomb over his abdomen and wrap around his sides. The layers of tissue overlap, folding upon themselves again and again, and Jonathan is put in mind of a heart dissected, cut open to expose the fibrous stretch of tendons across the ventricles. He wonders, if he were to thread his fingers through those labyrinthine channels, would he be able to feel Jonah’s heart beating under his fingertips? If he were to dig in and push through, would he be able to press against his lungs, feel them expanding with air underneath his touch?

Spurred on by his curiosity, by the dizzying pound of blood roaring in his ears, he fits his hands to Jonah’s ribs, squeezes to feel the give of his body under his palms, yielding and springy and cool to the touch. Jonathan spreads his fingers wide over the delicate meshwork of his abdomen, the tips catching on the edges of the holes and threatening to tear through the paper-thin walls of skin that separate one from the next.

“What does it feel like?” Jonah asks. His voice in Jonathan’s ear is low and breathless, hitching when Jonathan leans forward to nip at his jaw, kiss down his neck. Jonathan breathes heavily into the curve of Jonah’s shoulder as he slides a finger into one of the holes, slow and careful, pushing past the resistance of the layers beneath.

“Tight.” He turns his hand palm-up and sinks in deeper, further in past the catch and pull of the membranous skin of Jonah’s chest until his finger comes to rest against something that pulses hot and slick against it. When he speaks next, his voice is hushed and rasping. “Wet.”

Jonah chuckles above him, dark and amused. “Concise, if unoriginal.” Small, deft fingers weave into the hair at his temples, tugging until Jonathan pulls back from his neck and tilts his head to look up at him. “Have I stolen your words from you, Doctor?” Jonah asks, sliding a hand down to cup his jaw. He pushes his thumb past Jonathan’s lips, sweeps it gently across his teeth, presses it lightly against his tongue. “Or was I wrong to assume there was some talent in that tongue of yours?”

Jonah watches him, unblinking, and Jonathan dares not look away, dares not break this moment that locks them together, eye-to-eye, fingers dug in and pressed against tender, wet insides. There’s danger here, Jonathan knows; danger inside Jonah, for all that he’s small and soft and delicately beautiful. He thinks again of the sundew: of loveliness and sprung traps; of sweetness and slow, maddening dissolution. Jonah curls over him, ensnares him with his gaze, hot and cloistered and suffocating. Saliva pools in his mouth around Jonah’s thumb, and Jonathan feels as if he’s drowning.

Jonah draws his thumb from Jonathan’s mouth, drags it down over his bottom lip, and says, “You can answer me now.”

Jonathan swallows and clears his throat. “No,” he says hoarsely, “you weren’t wrong.”

“Then prove it.”

Jonah’s hand tightens briefly in his hair before he releases him to lean back once again. Jonathan takes a moment to look him over, takes in the upturn of his nose, the luminescent spots that freckle his cheeks and shoulders, the soft swell of his chest, tipped with silver barbells. He moves a hand up to cup Jonah’s chest, brushes his thumb over the nipple to feel the way it hardens under his touch, the way Jonah arches into it with a sigh. The movement causes the bit of sap pooled in the hollow of Jonah’s collarbone to spill over, and Jonathan watches as it runs down his breastbone and collects in one of the channels at the center of his chest like honey in a comb.

“Well?” Jonah asks, squeezing his thighs around Jonathan’s hips impatiently. “Go on.”

Leaning forward, Jonathan ducks his head to lick a hot stripe up Jonah’s chest, sternum to clavicle, the sugar of the sap and the salt of Jonah’s skin mingling on his tongue. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the base of Jonah’s throat, just where the edges of the lamellae smooth into the curve of his shoulder, and moves to suck a trail of bruises down his chest, dark rosettes that bloom against the pale of Jonah’s skin. The amber gleam of the sap in the low light of the room is tantalizing; it calls out to Jonathan, beckons him in for a taste, lures him into its sticky-sweet embrace. Hazy with want, gentled by need, Jonathan pitches forward and is caught.

He runs the flat of his tongue along the edge of the filled hole, bears down with a gentle pressure until the fragile skin buckles under it and the liquid within flows over his lips and into his mouth, syrupy and ambrosial. Panting against Jonah’s chest, Jonathan watches as a stream of sap drips down from his chin and onto his hand, spreading and pooling around where it’s pressed flush against Jonah’s ribs. Jonathan withdraws his finger slowly, calluses catching and dragging along the thin walls of the chamber that clutch against him. He hisses in a breath at the sight of it, slick and red to the second knuckle—thinks of it curled deep in Jonah’s chest, envisions it nestled against Jonah’s heart.

He imagines fucking Jonah then, imagines pushing past the resistance of Jonah’s flesh, further and further until he’s palm-deep inside, until Jonah is stretched and fluttering around his wrist, until Jonah clenches around him, slick or sap or blood dribbling down to his elbow. Heart racing in his chest, Jonathan slides his finger back inside, holds his breath as he eases a second into the hole adjacent, tight and grasping around the intrusion. His fingers press together through the thin wall between them—a mere slip of membrane, fine and delicate and so very breakable. And Jonathan wants to break it—wants to break _Jonah._ Wants to rip him open and tear him apart. Wants to see into the darkest depths of him and learn his every secret, his every inner working. Wants to piece him back together and make him anew, make him _his_ —to keep and preserve, to watch and learn.

And so he does.

Watches the flutter of Jonah’s eyes as he pushes in deeper, presses his fingers against those most vulnerable spots inside him. Learns the sounds Jonah makes when he slips his tongue into the honeyed chamber, seals his mouth over it and sucks. He sets his teeth to the edge of the hole, tugs at the rim until Jonah keens above him, thighs clamped around Jonathan’s legs as he shakes. Jonathan lets the skin slide from between his teeth and pulls back from Jonah’s chest to survey his work.

The skin around the cavity is flushed and wet and swollen, bruised where Jonathan worried it between his teeth. The holes stretched around his fingers are pulled taut, the walls bulging into the surrounding chambers to accommodate as Jonathan curls them inside Jonah. A thin stream of blood trickles down from around his fingers, mixes with the golden sap that runs down Jonah’s chest, and Jonathan leans in to chase it with his mouth, dipping his tongue into every chamber he can on his way down Jonah’s body.

He reaches the waistband of Jonah’s trousers and pauses to fumble one-handed at the buttons until Jonah knocks back his shaking fingers and takes over. It suits Jonathan just fine—it leaves his hand free, and he doesn’t squander the opportunity to explore. He maps the curves of Jonah’s waist and chest, running his fingers up to his neck to brush carefully across the gilled undersides of the caps until he finds the parting of flesh. It’s hot and slick and dripping still, and Jonathan sinks three fingers in to the first knuckle with little resistance.

Jonah hums, low and pleased, tipping his head to allow for better access. The sound of it vibrates against the tips of his fingers, and Jonathan presses in further to get closer to the source. Sap gushes up around them, dribbling down Jonah’s neck in golden rivulets, and Jonathan bends forward to lap it up. Sucks a bruise into the skin at the edge of the slit for good measure.

“Insatiable,” Jonah laughs. He raises his hips to shove his trousers down, and Jonathan watches as the motion stretches and pulls at the holes on Jonah’s abdomen, widens them until he imagines he can see the shadows of Jonah’s insides. “Have some patience, Doctor. I assure you that I’m worth the wait.”

Patient is the last thing he feels with Jonah sitting before him. And though he’s close enough to have the pulse of Jonah’s life at his fingertips—pressed up against his throat and deep inside his chest—he longs to be closer still. He _aches_ for him, vitally and hopelessly. Jonathan has never been a religious man; has never submitted himself to a god, never trusted that which he could not feel or see. But as he looks over Jonah, bare and otherworldly and resplendent, he imagines he now knows something of the divine; can understand the motions of the devout, their piety and their deference. Jonathan lowers his eyes and finds that Jonah is wet here, too, at the apex of his thighs, flushed and shining with slick. He slides his fingers out from inside him, trailing amber and crimson down the length of Jonah’s body as he falls to his knees in reverence to worship him in the only way he knows how.

“Oh,” Jonah breathes, a sound of delighted realization. Cool fingers skate down Jonathan’s cheek, curl under his chin to raise his face to meet Jonah’s. He looks him over for a moment, and what he sees there makes a grin curl his lips, cruel in its understanding. “You’re _desperate_ for it, aren’t you?”

Something inside Jonathan snarls at the tone, at the pity. But he can’t deny Jonah’s words any more than he can deny that he wants this. Wants what Jonah has—wants what he represents and offers both. Jonathan _is_ desperate. Desperate and needful and _hungry_. It makes him reckless—makes him foolish—but to fight against nature is futile, he knows. Jonah is the sundew, tempting and deadly, and Jonathan the unfortunate fly, doomed to be eaten alive. He averts his eyes, turns to press his lips to the soft skin at the inside of Jonah’s knee, and accepts his fate.

“It’s alright,” Jonah soothes, sliding his hand into the hair at Jonathan’s temple. “You needn’t hide it. Not from me.”

The skin of Jonah’s thighs is textured under his hands, studded with small, irregular markings several shades paler than the surrounding skin. They put Jonathan in mind of the wool neps in tweed, firm and yet giving under his touch, and he follows the upward path of his fingers closely with his tongue. Jonah slides a hand around to cradle the back of his head, guiding him forward between his legs.

“I know what it’s like…” Jonah trails off on a shuddering exhale of breath as Jonathan presses a kiss to his slit, open-mouthed and lingering. “To want so badly to be loved, to be _cherished_.”

The scent of Jonah is strongest here—like morning dew, like a forest floor, like petrichor after a heavy rain. It is intoxicating. Heady and sweet and achingly _familiar_ , and Jonathan can’t get enough of it, can’t get enough of the taste of him on his tongue. He moans helplessly against him, reaches a hand up to grip him by the hip and pull him closer, burying his nose into auburn curls.

“I can give that to you, Doctor,” Jonah says, soft and coaxing. He cards gentle fingers through Jonathan’s hair, arching up into his mouth when he drags the flat of his tongue over his cock. “I can take that itching restlessness under your skin and replace it with song.”

Jonathan curls his tongue into Jonah, fucking into him with a desperate fervor, lapping at the slick that gushes into his mouth, earthy and nectar-sweet. It drips down his chin and throat, soaking into the collar of his shirt until it clings damply to his neck. Jonah moans above him, high and needy, and hitches a leg over his shoulder to angle his hips closer. With his thigh pressed against his ear, Jonathan can hear the gentle thud of Jonah’s pulse, slow and melodic.

“It will be beautiful. Rapturous. It will sing through your veins with the thousand clarion voices of those that want you—those that _need_ you. Those that will love you for all you are and all you can become.”

 _Become_ . The word resonates in Jonathan’s chest, a fluttering susurration borne not out of anxiety but anticipation. That he could be something different, something _more_. He has been set in his ways, for better or for worse; hesitant to change, even in a manner which might make him more palatable to those around him. He’s settled for respect, and has long since come to terms with the fact that few would be willing to look past his dour disposition long enough to truly love him. But with Jonah above him, whispering promises of adoration and devotion, he finds his foundation of solitude and indifference cracking under the weight of his words, the litany of _I could have this_ and _this could be mine._

“You will hear it in the space between every heartbeat. In the pause between every inhale and exhale.” Jonah breaks off on a gasp as Jonathan slides two fingers inside him, crooks them upward to feel him flutter and tighten around them. Tears spring to his eyes at the twist of Jonah’s hand in his hair, painful and stinging and lovely; at the clench of Jonah’s words in his chest, tender and aching and lovelier still. He closes his eyes and lets the sound of Jonah’s voice wash over him, smooth and melodious.

“It will grow and grow until it drowns out the loneliness. Until it fills every aching hollow inside you that ever cried out for acceptance, for a place where you belonged.”

Knelt between Jonah’s legs, bracketed by the plush of his thighs, Jonathan feels strangely at ease—calm, gentled. And when something slides across his hand—something thin and silken that curls over his fingers and palm in a ticklish slither and raises prickling gooseflesh across his skin—he doesn’t flinch. Merely melts into it as he imagines fine, thready mycelia winding around his wrist and up his arm, a delicate network binding him, ensnaring him. Caught in Jonah’s trap, finally and irrevocably, and he can scarcely imagine a sweeter way to be consumed.

“I can give you that,” Jonah murmurs, running his thumb over the shell of Jonathan’s ear, sweeping it over the arch of his cheekbone. Jonathan can feel the threads follow the path of his hand, coiling around the side of his face, wrapping around his neck. “This can be yours, too.”

 _Yes_ , he thinks in instant, mindless agreement. _Yes_. He seals his mouth around Jonah’s cock, flicking his tongue over it as he sucks, a gentle wet pressure that has Jonah bucking into his mouth with a cry. The mycelia tighten and pulse around his throat in time with the clench of Jonah around his fingers and he feels lightheaded, dizzy with pleasure—his and Jonah’s both. Jonah begins to grind against his face in short, jerky movements, bending over Jonathan as he nears his peak, caging him in his embrace. There’s a moment of tightening—the hand in his hair, the threads around his neck, Jonah around his fingers—and then release, stuttering into softness like the hitching gasps Jonah breathes against the top of his head.

When Jonah’s hand slips from his hair, Jonathan eases his eyes open, blinking away the starbursts that pop before them. As he leans back, he looks to his arm, expecting to find it tangled up in a complicated meshwork of fungal mycelia, wrapped up and around him like choking vines. But there’s nothing there. Not a shred of evidence to suggest that anything he felt was more than a figment of his imagination. He pulls away from Jonah with a jerk and raises his hand to his neck in his confusion, feeling around for any of the threads he’s sure had just been wound around him, stealing away his breath. Nothing.

Jonah looks on with hooded eyes as he searches, a small, amused smile curling his lips as Jonathan succeeds only in spreading slickness across his throat.

“Is there a problem, Doctor?” he asks with a tilt of his head, watching as Jonathan rises to his feet and takes a step back.

“I could have sworn…” Jonathan trails off, shaking his head. “It’s nothing. A trick of the senses.” He breathes in deeply and feels his mind start to clear, takes in the sight of Jonah before him. The skin of his chest is pinked, flushed and swollen and bruised where Jonathan had focused the bulk of his attentions. He thinks of the livid bruises that will mottle Jonah’s pale skin in the morning and flinches away.

“I-I’m terribly sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Oh, come now,” Jonah tuts. “There’s nothing for which you need apologize. I assure you I enjoyed myself _most_ thoroughly.”

Jonah grins wickedly up at him, eyes flitting across his face, and Jonathan feels immediately self-conscious. What a sordid sight he must make, with his hair rumpled and mussed, his collar damp and fallen from its neat press, his face wet and shining with Jonah’s slick. He hastily swipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Be that as it may,” Jonathan starts, averting his eyes as Jonah eases himself off the table. He tries desperately not to notice the way Jonah’s body stretches and moves as he begins to redress. “I must insist upon apologizing for my behavior. You are my guest, and I have treated you most ungraciously.”

Jonah throws his head back and laughs, loud and ringing in the quiet of the room. Jonathan is sure it’s at his expense—at his discomfiture, his stumbling attempt at an apology. It’s not the first time he’s been mocked for his clumsy ineptitude as far as social etiquette goes, and he knows it’s far from the last. He folds his arms over his chest, trying to tamp down his embarrassment even as he feels his face heat.

“If that’s your idea of ungracious, I would very much like to see what you consider gracious.” Jonah pauses for a moment, quiet save for the hushed rustle of clothing being put to rights. “And I think I would quite like to see you more ungracious still.”

There’s the sound of metal scraping across wood, and Jonathan looks up to find Jonah fingering the scalpel laid out on the table, turning it until the blade points Jonathan’s way. Jonah is again much as he was when he first stepped over Jonathan’s threshold: buttoned up and put together; skin smooth and untouched by the creep of fungi; two green eyes, whole and sharp and fixed on Jonathan’s face with such intensity as to leave him gasping.

Jonah steps up to him and lays a hand on his waist, fingers pressing lightly into the dip of it. His eyes slide down from Jonathan’s face, an unhurried appraisal that burns like a match struck against his skin. “May I return the favor?” he asks, trailing his fingers down Jonathan’s body to tuck the tips of them under the waistband of his trousers.

“Oh,” Jonathan stammers, “no, I ah—no, thank you.”

“Hmm,” Jonah hums, pursing his lips. His hand lingers at Jonathan’s waist—long enough that Jonathan’s heart starts to race and he wonders if Jonah means to ignore his refusal. And then Jonah steps back, fingers brushing against Jonathan’s hips as they fall back to his sides. “Perhaps another time.”

At a loss for how to respond to that, Jonathan instead chooses to keep his mouth firmly shut, biting the inside of his lip as Jonah shrugs back into his jacket. He watches Jonah smooth down his lapels and feels…strangely disappointed. With himself and his behavior, certainly. For all he doesn’t see the point in many of society’s expectations, he doesn’t like to remain ignorant of them. Much less does he like to be rude in his eschewal of them, and his actions tonight were nothing if not improper. But beyond that, he is disappointed with the fact that Jonah didn’t insist—that he was _allowed_ to deny Jonah at all. It’s this that confuses him most, leaves him feeling ill at ease and uncomfortable in his own skin in a way that’s wholly new to him.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by Jonah’s voice, closer now than it was before.

“I’ll be on my way then,” he says, already heading towards the door.

Jonathan scrambles to assist him. “Please, let me—”

“No need,” Jonah declines with a raise of his hand. He’s wearing his gloves again, Jonathan notices, and makes no move to shake his hand in farewell. “I can see myself out.”

On his way to the door, Jonah pauses by the desk, casting a look down to where he left the book laid open. He reaches out to run a gloved finger over the page, tracing the lines of the illustration with a careful sort of reverence that makes Jonathan wonder what it is that he sees.

“It was so good to make your acquaintance, Doctor Fanshawe,” Jonah says, drawing his hand back to his chest. He looks over his shoulder and sends Jonathan a small, knowing smile. “Until we meet again.”

Jonathan stands, rooted to the spot, as Jonah sweeps from the room, not once looking back. His ears strain to catch the sound of Jonah’s footfalls as he moves down the hall, hard to hear over the pounding of his own heart in his ears. The thought of Jonah navigating his home with ease, coming and going as he pleases, fills him with such a peculiar mix of dread and desire that he feels lightheaded all over again, the room drawn in close around him. There’s the sharp creak of the door as it opens and the dull thud of it as it’s pulled shut, and then silence, save for the shaky breaths he draws in through his nose. Jonah is gone.

Jonathan collapses into his desk chair, not trusting his shaking legs to bear his weight any longer. He is slick between his own thighs, an uncomfortable wetness that he’d rather not think about, and he looks out over the room to survey the damage. The table is filthy; Jonah’s blood and sap and arousal are spread across the wood on one end in drips and pools that shine in the low light of the room. Fine bone buttons litter the floor, surrounding the remains of Jonah’s waistcoat, left in a heap by one leg of the table. It’s a mess— _he’s_ a mess, if he’s being honest with himself. And as much as it chafes at him to remain this way, his curiosity wins out over his discomfort. Turning in his seat, he looks over to the book laid out on the desk, to the illustration that caught Jonah’s attention so.

A man, gently peeling back the skin of his abdomen to reveal his insides, intact despite the pull of gravity. Somewhat unusual for an anatomical drawing, perhaps, though nowhere near unusual enough to set Jonathan’s heart to racing as it does. He’s looked at this illustration before—plenty of times, in fact—and had only ever seen it for the medical diagram it is meant to be, a simple study of the structures and organs of the abdominal cavity. But now… now, Jonathan can see the way it _blooms._ In the rippled surface of the tissue, he sees the delicate folds and frills of lamellae; in the bends and twists of the intestines, the curved shelves of bracket mushrooms; in the spread of the peritoneal veins and arteries, the thin, branching arms of mycelia.

He slams the book closed, knocking several sheets of loose paper from the desk with the small breeze it creates. His skin prickles, a restless tingling he attributes to his arousal, uncomfortable and unwanted in the wake of Jonah’s departure. He sits back in his chair, eyes unfocused and distant as he collects himself.

There’s a deep, throbbing itch at the base of his throat. Something that goes beyond the skin, something that presses up from inside. Demanding. Insistent.

He scratches at his neck, nails digging deep into the skin, and refuses to dwell on what it means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Here is some additional information because I'm a nerd and maybe you are too.
> 
> The word "mycology," meaning the study of fungi, wasn't coined until 1836. But mushrooms have been an area of scientific interest for centuries. They were considered plants right up until the 1970s, when they were classified into their own separate kingdom. 
> 
> The mushrooms I imagined on Jonah are as follows:  
> \- from his eye, [enoki](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/15/c5/34/15c534df1e61afa8e15204fbc594ff29.jpg)  
> \- around his neck, [bracket fungi](https://www.foxglovecovert.org.uk/images/blog/31_10_09-RIMG0813.JPG)  
> \- on his abdomen, [netted rhodotus](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/c1/Rhodotus_palmatus2.jpg) (trypophobia warning)  
> \- on his thighs, [fly agaric](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0715/4823/products/Aman_musc_qc_grande.jpg?v=1483662145) (just the bumps)
> 
> This is the image described in the fic, from _De humani corporis fabrica_ , or "On the fabric of the human body", published in 1543 by Andreas Vesalius. I imagine Jonathan probably has a second edition copy, published in 1555. Over 700 copies of these books still exist! One of which is bound in human skin--you try and tell me that's not a Leitner.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podfic for Ophiocordycipitaceae.

  
[Download](https://www.dropbox.com/s/ygftup7cx2xvstj/Ophiocordycipitaceae.mp3?dl=0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delicious cover art done by Dundee ([dundeedeerling](https://twitter.com/dundeedeerling) on twitter) and Jay ([gummybyrd](https://twitter.com/gummybyrd) on twitter).
> 
> A thousand thanks to the mysterious other voice actors. You folks killed it.
> 
> Narration and editing done by Leto, who can be found on AO3 at [Autodidact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/), tumblr at [divorcecravat](https://divorcecravat.tumblr.com/), or twitter at [quickenedsilver](https://twitter.com/quickenedsilver).


End file.
